The cosmopolitan city of Sarajevo, which had hosted the 1984 Winter Olympics and was now home to 300,000 people under siege when Dragan and I arrived in 1994.

In the summer of 1994, we met Addy on the streets. She was with four men, all kitted out in military gear. I assumed she was a medic, but she was armed with an expensive submachine gun, so maybe not. The MP5 submachine gun was not common in the area, which stood out to me. She was also a woman who was attractive in an American sort of way.

The four other men had rifles that were not AKs or M16s, I did not know what they were. The men were clean-shaven but wore dirty uniforms, not standard military uniforms of any type I knew. Between the military gear and the uniforms, I knew they were foreign fighters, the first ones I had seen in the war. We did not ask them if they were fighters, we did not need to. Sarajevo at the time was a hotspot for foreign aid workers and journalists, foreigners wanting to get into the action of being around death like moths to fire. With the expensive guns they had, they were likely here to cause death. Regardless, it was good that they were on our side, as they all wore small red, blue, and white ribbons on their front pockets.

From the way Addy spoke, she was not British, most likely American. The other men did not speak much. What I remember most about Addy is that she did not belong there. She looked out of place as she kept glancing around nervously, like someone who was scared. She fit in with her group but seemed like she was overwhelmed with everything.

Earlier that day, while searching a house for supplies with Dragan, I had cut my upper left arm on a mangled pipe. Addy saw the blood and wanted to check out my wound.

I had studied English for two years, and of course, I picked up some language skills from television. It was good to be able to talk in English with someone, even if it was limited. We left the street and ducked into a nearby building where Addy took care of me. She pulled out some bandages and salve from a pouch and doctored up my arm. While she was doing that, our limited conversation revolved around wound care and a British singer, Kate Bush, who Addy looked a little like. I did not tell her what we were doing there and she did not either.

She also took out several bottles of medicine, gave me one tablet from one of those bottles, and told me that without antibiotics, my cut would become infected. I promised her I would try to find some. The salve worked well, but it left a scar that never went away. I never found any antibiotic but to this day, I am thankful for Addy.

Back on the street, a soldier whom I assumed was the leader motioned for them to move on. Addy told Dragan and me, "Good luck out there," and as quickly as they had arrived, they left. Addy was the shortest of the fighters, so she had to catch up to them. She did not turn around to wave goodbye, I assume that would have been frowned upon by the men.

About thirty minutes later, Dragan and I heard automatic weapons fire in overly long bursts. It was unusual. Dragan said it was most likely inexperienced fighters or even foolish kids involved in a skirmish with Addy's group. That seemed reasonable to me.

Later, we quietly made our way toward where the gunfire had been. We found Addy there, sitting haphazardly against a building wall. Her MP5 and rucksack were gone. We did not see any other bodies nearby, only Addy was in view.

Dragan and I did not approach any further, as it was clear Addy was dead. If we had ventured closer, we might have been shot. With everyone knowing that we were Serbs and enemy combatants being in the area, we were targets.

Seeing Addy there, a woman I barely knew, was painful. I felt pity for her because she had become nothing more than ambush or sniper bait to the enemy. All that Addy was had been reduced to that by the enemy. I also thought about death differently now, while I knew it could come at any moment, with Addy, it felt more real. She was someone I knew.

Addy was the first person I knew personally who died in the war. I had met Americans before in Belgrade when I was fifteen. However, Addy was the first American I spoke to as an adult. She was also the first foreign fighter I had met. Even though I only knew her for the last hour of her life, I will always miss her.

She was close to my age and attractive, but there was more to her than that. Addy was genuinely kind, and I felt she truly belonged in America, not on the streets of Sarajevo. Everything about her told me that she was far too kind for this place.

Addy is not part of my 'porodica,' but she does have a family somewhere in America. I do not know what brought her to Sarajevo, and it saddens me to think that we left her on the street. I doubt her family knows what happened to her, as the men she was with did not seem like the sort who would bother to tell them anything.

In my travels, I have seen the walls of despair too many times. Countless photographs of missing people are posted on those walls by relatives searching desperately for answers. They do not care if the answer is good or bad, they just want an answer, any answer.

To this day, I know how Addy's story ended because I was there, but there is no family to give that answer. A photo of Addy being used as sniper bait did exist at one time. However, I seriously doubt the military used it to contact anyone, it was just one of many photos on a roll of film I took that week.

My Wall Of Despair

Chapter 5 - The Story Of Addy